


The Dread Wolf's Blessings

by SableR



Series: Starling's Flight [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Developing Friendships, F/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 04:43:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3474884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SableR/pseuds/SableR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solas heals her when she's dying, guides her when she's lost, raises her up when she stumbles. What begins as a purely pragmatic offer of help quickly becomes something more as Lavellan's spirit inexorably draws him from his lonely path. A collection of Solas/F!Lavellan pre-romance scenes from Solas's perspective. Spoilers for early game quests and endgame reveals.  Repost from FF.net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Compassion

The girl lay in a cell in the basement of Haven's chantry, where cultists had once imprisoned Andraste's faithful. He could almost see the old bloodstains on the stone. Small wonder she was dying; this was a place where death had infused the very bricks and mortar. The Seeker reached for a set of rusted iron keys and opened the cell. It smelled of herbs and astringent. A human man knelt next to the girl, brow covered with sweat.

"I'm not a bloody miracle worker, Seeker. I don't know what you expect me to-" The man cut off his tirade upon seeing Solas standing there. "Who's this?"

"Adan, this is Solas. An apostate who claims he can help us." Even Seeker Cassandra's word choice oozed suspicion. She still held his staff in her left hand, her right on the hilt of her sword. "He wants to examine our prisoner."

Adan looked Solas up and down, his eyes performing the familiar motion of lingering on the pointed ears. "About time you got a mage down here." He stepped aside and handed over his lantern, giving Solas some space next to the hard wooden cot where the girl lay.

She was young, not much over twenty by his guess, with tanned skin and long brown hair bound up in a braid. The faint burgundy  _vallaslin_  of June covered her cheeks and forehead. That alone was unusual. What was one of the Dalish doing at a human conclave? He knelt and picked up her hand, the unmarked one, feeling the subtle archer's callouses. Her skin was cold to the touch, her pulse slightly erratic, breathing shallow.

Solas looked at Adan. "Has she woken up since the conclave?"

"No. It's all I can do to keep her swallowing elfroot infusion and breathing." He was about to say more when the girl cried out; her left hand pulsed with green light, and her whole body convulsed briefly but violently. Adan, clearly used to the sight of this, pinned her shoulders to the cot so she wouldn't hurt herself; she was so weak that all he had to do was rest his weight on her. When the glow subsided, the human left the cell, leaving Solas and Cassandra alone with the girl. She stirred slightly, whispering something, but he couldn't make out the words.

"Has she said anything?" he asked Cassandra.

"Nothing we can understand. But every time the Breach grows, that mark on her hand pulses." Solas turned his attention to the Anchor, an ugly and jagged line across the palm of her left hand. For now, it was barely visible. If it hadn't been for the gloom in the cell, he might not have seen it at all. He turned down the lantern, examining every line of the mark minutely.

"Well?" demanded Cassandra. "Can you help or not?"

"I don't know," he said through clenched teeth, fighting down the wave of guilt that welled up in him. The conclave, the explosion, this poor girl dying in a Chantry jail cell...his fault. It made the lie come easier. "I have never seen magic like this before."

"Hardly enlightening."

Solas drew a deep, steadying breath. "If I could have some time, Seeker? Your alchemist has had time to tend to his patient. I do not wish to jump to any conclusions." He ran his fingertips over the mark; the achingly familiar magic of the orb sang to him, but it was altered somehow. Perverted from its purpose, embedded in the hand of this child.

"Time is a luxury we don't have, apostate. My presence is needed elsewhere." With his back turned to her, he couldn't see it, but he heard the subtle shift in posture as she moved to block him from the cell door.

"You have templars here in Haven. Send them to guard us."

He could tell from the silence that he'd surprised her. She eventually murmured something to the guards, who drew their blades and stood on either side of the door. Solas sighed to himself. As if the wretched girl lying on the bed could do anything to any of them, even if she did miraculously awaken. As if he was any real threat without his staff...and bereft of the orb.

Seeker Cassandra returned a few minutes later with four templars, who replaced the jail guards outside the cell. "Let me know if he causes any trouble," she said, plenty loud enough for Solas to hear. "And if she wakes up."

His world narrowed to that dark cell and the girl within it - her barely audible breaths, her fluttering pulse, her soft cries of pain. The Anchor was quickly killing her, like a parasite siphoning her life force each time it flared. Perhaps it was using her life to feed the Breach? It seemed unlikely that any one person's life would be enough to open a deliberate tear of such magnitude. She wasn't even a mage, and painfully mortal. She would be dead in hours.

Solas waited until the templars had grown bored of staring at him. It didn't take long; he wasn't threatening to the girl or them, and templars were still but men. The two templars just outside the cell started up a conversation, and Solas turned his body, blocking the girl's hand from their view. He pressed her palm to his forehead, gently feeling out the Anchor.

A great deal of power from his orb was still bound up in the mark. He paused, listened again for any sign of hyper-vigilance, then grasped her hand in both of his, trying to draw out his stolen magic.

The effect was instantaneous and electric - the familiar touch of ancient magic answered his call, but her hand flared blindingly and the girl shrieked, writhing in pain. Swords scraped against sheaths, and the cell door crashed open; Solas dropped her hand in the face of four templars pointing blades at him.

"I'm sorry. I tried to test the mark, see what sort of magic caused it," he said in an even, calm voice, holding up his hands to show he was no threat. The girl's screams quickly subsided, but her whole body shook like a leaf in a thunderstorm. Four pairs of steely eyes watched him, waiting for a reason to run him through. "Please. I have caused her pain. Let me attend to her."

The templars glanced at one another, then the one closest to the cell door nodded to the others to sheathe their swords. His armor was slightly different, and he wore a lieutenant's tabard. "Don't try that again," he said, not unkindly.

"I won't." Solas sat down on the girl's cot, cradling her against him until the tremors stopped. He allowed himself a shuddering breath, a moment of weakness looking down at her face. Somehow, inexplicably, the Anchor was now bound to her. His attempt to reclaim it had nearly killed her. If he tried again, he surely would.

Solas looked from the dying girl to the templars. There was power in the Anchor; he could feel a tiny piece of it spreading through him like a single warm sunbeam. Could he recover enough to take four templars and hunt down the darkspawn magister? There was no way to tell, not unless he tried, but if his plan failed he had no backup. The Seeker would surely capture and execute him as her scapegoat, and who would blame her?

The Dalish girl stirred weakly in his arms, curling her body toward him and seeking his warmth. Her hands found his clothes in a futile effort to bring him closer. Solas's breath caught in his throat. He had come to examine and possibly reclaim the Anchor. But to even make the attempt, he would have to kill the girl. The unlucky innocent who had no business being here, and no recourse against him. The child who clung to him like a lifeline. If he slew her, he deserved nothing less than templar blades through the back.

He had to start somewhere, making up for his mistake, so he may as well start with her. He gathered her up in his arms, pressing his forehead against hers. She felt cold, fragile, like she'd been lying there for a week instead of a day.

" _Ir abelas, d_ _a'len_ ," he whispered softly.

Nothing. It was wishful thinking that she'd respond. He forced himself to look at her in detail: her light brown curls plastered to her skin with cold sweat, brow furrowed in lingering pain, archer's fingers grasping his robes. This was something he could hold onto, something he could atone for.

He pulled the short fur cloak from his shoulders and laid it over her to help keep her warm. Then he tried everything he could think of, every form of healing magic he could still perform. But while he could drive life into her body, it didn't linger. She didn't have the strength left.  The mark continued to bleed her dry.

In the days of Arlathan, he'd used a more sophisticated method of warding; when everyone knew magic, being able to defend against it was that much more important. The spell was meant to be used on oneself, warping one's ambient magic into a shield that would absorb harmful magical effects. The girl was no mage, but he closed his eyes, extending the shielding from himself to include her.  The templars saw nothing, did nothing, blind to the subtle ripples that enveloped both elves.

It was exhausting work, forcing him to weaken the shield so he could maintain it over both of them. The slow, consistent drain on his mana felt like a headache pressing in at his temples; it had been a very long time since he'd attempted this sort of defensive spell for another. He waited with bated breath, and the next time he heard demons explode from the Breach, the girl shifted a bit in his arms but did not cry out. Nor did the mark flare. Solas slumped against the stone wall in relief; he would have to stay with her and maintain the ward, but she at least wouldn't die on his account.

One Dalish girl. One life saved among hundreds lost.

The door to the prison opened again, but the footsteps weren't the Seeker's heavy tread or the alchemist's shuffle. Solas caught a whiff of food. A dwarf wearing a dusty velvet jacket sat down on the steps outside the cell, just out of reach of the templars' swords. He placed a tray laden with food next to him, soaking up some of the stew with bread.

"Well, I see you've made yourself at home in this lovely prison. How's she doing?"

"You know her?" asked Solas. The dwarf tossed him a bread roll through the bars. It was still warm. His stomach rumbled loudly - when had he last eaten?

"She's a prisoner, like me," said the dwarf around a mouthful of stew. "That's about all we have in common."

Solas looked him over critically. "Your circumstances are considerably better than hers."

"I'm not suspected of killing the Divine and most of the Chantry bigwigs. Yet," said the dwarf. "Varric Tethras, at your service."

"I am Solas. A pleasure to meet you, child of the Stone."

Varric scoffed. "I'm a Marcher. None of the Stone for me." He picked up the tray and casually shoved his way past the templars, joining Solas in the girl's cell. "So? Any progress?"

Solas picked up a cup of steaming broth, blowing on it to cool it off. "I can keep the mark from killing her. Hopefully she wakes before the magic involved exhausts me."

"Really? Better than we've been doing." Varric looked down at the girl in his lap; she was breathing easier now, her face still if not exactly relaxed. "I wonder how she got caught up in all this? You really think she could be responsible?"

"No."

"That sure, huh?"

Solas quickly checked himself. "It is highly unlikely. She is not a mage, and even if she was, the Dalish do not possess magic with this sort of destructive power." He pulled a wooden spoon from his belt and began slowly feeding broth to the girl. He'd have to ask Adan for some elfroot infusion later, and perhaps his staff back from Cassandra. He tuned back the power of the ward to give himself some respite, watching blue energy shimmer over both of them.

Varric's eyes narrowed.  "Are you a healer?"

If only he knew. "No. I am more of a...scholar and explorer. But I have seen many things in my travels through the Fade. I thought I should offer my help."

To his surprise, Varric smiled at him sadly. "Good. Last healer I knew got possessed, went crazy, and blew up a Chantry."

"I have no intention of doing any of those things." The dwarf meant well, he could tell that much. He didn't have to share his dinner with an apostate and an unconscious prisoner. The Breach's energy once again pressed on his wards, and the girl stirred in his arms.

"...grey," she murmured fretfully. "...too many eyes..."

Solas and Varric looked at each other. The dwarf shrugged. "Maybe she's having a nightmare about spiders."

"Spiders?"

"I hate spiders. The giant, nasty, hairy ones in the Deep Roads - ah, never mind." Varric put the half-empty tray down next to Solas and turned to go. "Take care of that girl, Chuckles." Solas raised an eyebrow at the nickname, and the dwarf shrugged again. "You seem like the cheerful, optimistic sort."

Solas sighed. "If you see Seeker Cassandra, could you please ask her to return my staff? I will have a much easier time maintaining the protective ward."

Varric looked like he wanted to say no. Then he sighed helplessly and nodded. "Fine. But if she punches me, I'm passing it forward to you." The dwarf left the jail, and Solas was alone in the darkness with the girl and four templars.

The other three armored men were no longer paying any attention to him, but the lieutenant continued to watch Solas steadily, even as he devoured the remaining food and finished feeding the girl. "For what it's worth," the templar eventually said, "I'm glad you're here, mage. She looked a lot worse when we found her."

Solas's head snapped up. " _You_ found her?" he asked.

The human shook his head. "Well, not personally. Chantry forces." Solas nodded, hiding the sinking feeling in his stomach. He needed more information about what had happened, and this well-meaning fool knew nothing.

Oblivious to Solas's thoughts, the templar continued. "There was a woman in the rift behind her, you know. She just fell out of the sky, and there was this glowing woman lingering in the Fade."

"I've heard," said Solas in a careful, neutral tone. "Perhaps she can tell us more if she wakes."

The templar's face fell a little. "You don't think she'll wake up?"

"I cannot say." This tiny slip of a mortal had been physically hurled through the Fade. The chance of her eyes ever opening again was very slim indeed. Then again, many things that should not have happened were in motion at this very moment. Perhaps one of them would not be a mistake.

Solas did not believe in sentimental gestures, but if there was even the smallest chance that the girl's spirit could still hear him, he had to try. He waited until the Breach exploded again; the flares of energy were coming faster now. He needed her to hear him.

It was easy to slip into the Fade; there had been plenty of death within these walls. Solas ignored the phantom wails of the cultists' prisoners and the echoes of long-dead sermons. He closed his eyes and opened his senses, questing for the girl. He could feel her spirit in the Fade with him, but muted somehow, bound, like a whisper through deep and icy water.

Something was keeping her from him, from the waking world. The Anchor? Was it tethering her here to the Fade? He called out to his friends and heard nothing in return. It should not have been a surprise; he could see the Breach from this side of the Veil, a violent maelstrom that tore the very fabric of the Fade itself and consumed it. No spirit would voluntarily linger here. But the bitter tang of disappointment hit him nonetheless.

There was nothing he could do for her from this side of the Veil, the only place he was still powerful. She was in the hands of providence now, and providence had never been kind to him.

But he had to try. He always had to try. "Wake up," he whispered, and he was gone.

When he opened his eyes in the waking world, she did not follow suit. But one of her hands had found his, cold fingers laced through his in an unconscious reflex for comfort. His immediate instinct was to pull away. But he forced himself to stay, absently stroking her marked palm with his thumb, feeling the thrum of his stolen magic.

 _Open your eyes, da'len_ , he silently begged her.  _You must wake up._


	2. Wisdom

"Herald! Herald of Andraste!"

Solas watched from the window of his small cottage as one of the Chantry mothers approached the Lavellan girl, no doubt asking for food or additional resources for the refugees and pilgrims flooding into Haven. The young huntress flinched at the title, as though the priest had physically raised a hand to her. He shook his head and sighed. How was the fate of the world in the hands of one so green?

He cracked open the window, listening to their words carrying on the wind.

"...not sure we'll have enough blankets and tents for everyone tonight, especially with the influx of people from Redcliffe," said the human woman in a pleading tone. "I know you're terribly busy, but-"

"You don't have to pray for blankets, Mother Lyda," said the girl gently. "The Chantry is warm at night, and there's still plenty of space down below if people don't mind sleeping in the old prison cells."

"But...Commander Cullen said we needed that space to house prisoners."

Lavellan laughed softly. "What prisoners? Cassandra has allowed Varric and I to walk free." She smiled at the woman. "Send the overflow of refugees into the basement of the Chantry. You will find hay for pallets in the storage rooms. If the commander complains, let me know and I'll talk to him."

The priest beamed at her. "You have a noble soul, Herald. Andraste chose well." The girl's expression soured from smiling to frustrated, but the Chantry mother didn't notice, too busy hurrying back to her flock with the good news.

Solas let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. She was certainly no Garahel or Rajmael, and handled the title of Herald with little grace. But at least she had a kind heart and a clear mind. Under the circumstances, it might have been anyone with the Anchor, perhaps some brutish Chantry zealot who cared nothing for wisdom or tolerance. The very thought made him shudder.

The girl rubbed her temples, then looked up and caught him watching her. He smiled and beckoned her into the little wooden house. She practically skipped to the door, eager for some respite from her duties. He didn't exactly mind; though he mostly kept to himself in Haven, he enjoyed indulging her thirst for knowledge. It had been some time since he had anything approaching an equal in wits.

"You will eventually take prisoners," he said without preamble as soon as the door closed behind her. "It is inevitable with an organization like this."

"Then that's Cassandra and Cullen's problem," she replied, sitting down in the chair in front of his fireplace. "Besides, we're already swamped. The only people worth imprisoning are the ones responsible for the Breach. Even if we do find them, I doubt the walls of a chantry could hold people that powerful."

Her guess was more on point than she could have imagined. "I suppose you're right," he said. "And Haven is hardly defensible, prison or not. You may as well provide for the greatest number of people."

She raised an eyebrow at him.  "You don't approve,  _hahren_?"

"I do not relish being surrounded by throngs of the faithful. Though I gather that you don't either."

She sighed and shook her head. "It's not like that. My father was our clan's storyteller, but also negotiated with outsiders on our behalf. I used to go with him. I don't fear or dislike the humans. I just wish they'd stop making me something I'm not."

"An unusual attitude, from a Dalish elf."

She shrugged. "I'm stuck here for the foreseeable future. I may as well get along with everyone. Varric even lent me one of his books." And she lifted a copy of  _The Tale of the Champion_  from her bag.

Solas couldn't help but smile. She wanted to know  _everything_ , and not just from him. Magic, politics, history, religion, culture - she devoured every piece of knowledge she got with the same voracity, as though her life depended on it. And it probably did.

"Take Varric's story with a grain of salt. He does like to embellish."

She was about to respond when Cullen's heavy knock came at the door. "Herald? A word about the prison?" She winced and got to her feet.

"I'll be right there."

Solas's smile turned into a frown as he watched her go. She wasn't doing badly by any measure, but her inability to accept the title of Herald was slowly but subtly hurting their cause. And he desperately needed the Inquisition to succeed if he was ever going to put things right. He resolved to talk to her about it the next time they were out in the field, away from the pilgrims and priests at Haven.

He got his opportunity on the Storm Coast, a few weeks after her first attempt at the Breach. They were too far away from any of the Inquisition camps, and had to set up a makeshift one along the shore above high tide. The crashing waves offered the perfect source of privacy from any listening ears.

The girl took the first watch, as she always did, silhouetted against the raging water with the moon behind her and her bow in her lap. Solas waited until Cassandra and Varric had gone to sleep before approaching her.

He didn't mince words. The sooner she got used to her situation, the better, for all of them including her. "Do not let them see how much being their Herald bothers you. They need someone to believe in, and it may as well be you."

She actually scowled at him. "I'd have thought that you, of all people, would understand."

"I'm sorry?" he said, completely taken aback. She had never spoken like that to him, to anyone as far as he could remember.

"The hard truth is preferable to the comfort of a lie," she said, pointing his own words back at him. "Nobody has proof that it was Andraste in that rift. And more importantly, nobody even cares." She sighed, looking down at the Anchor on her hand. "No amount of belief will turn a lie into the truth."

Solas kept his expression still and neutral; he couldn't show her what a deep, painful chord her words had struck. He managed to rearrange his face into a small smile. He could always try again later. "Of course. My apologies for bringing it up."

"It's ok. I know you meant well." She looked at him hesitantly, almost fearfully. " _Hahren_...you don't believe I'm the Herald, do you?"

His next smile was genuine, half-amused at her ignorance. "I believe this world is stranger than we could possibly imagine,  _da'len,_ " he said, choosing his words carefully. "But do I believe in gods or divine prophets? No, I don't think I do."

She visibly relaxed. "I don't either," she admitted. "The Maker, his prophet, the Stone, even the gods of our people. They're just stories we've passed down. Maybe there was a kernel of truth in there somewhere, but it's all gotten obscured by the myth."

She had surprised him once again, and this time it showed on his face. "Then what of your  _vallaslin_?" he asked, unable to help himself.

The girl shrugged. "It's a rite of passage into adulthood, so I did it. And I'm good with my hands, so June seemed appropriate. That's it, really."

If someone told Solas a year ago that he'd meet a Dalish elf uncorrupted by arrogance or self-righteousness, he would have called that person a naive fool. But here she stood before him, an anomaly, completely unaware of how strange and unique she was. He stared at her for nearly a minute, long enough that she started to squirm under his gaze.

"Forgive me," he said. "I have never met a Dalish elf quite like you." It was the truth...or most of it.

She laughed softly.  "And I've never met a man quite like you."

A man. Not an elf, or a mage. He inwardly cringed at his own hypocrisy, thinking of this strange girl only in terms of the slave markings on her face. It suddenly occurred to him that he didn't even know her given name. He could only identify her by her clan, Lavellan.

He asked, and she looked surprised but gratified. "Clariel," she said.

"That isn't a Dalish name."

She shook her head. "My father picked it. My name is from a human tale. An Alamarri one, specifically."

"I imagine that went well with the rest of your clan."

"We can hardly keep recycling the same names over and over again. It gets boring." Her tone was light, joking, but her smile did not extend to her eyes. She looked down at her feet, fingers idly picking at her bowstring.

"I think you have a beautiful name."

The words were out before he could stop himself, and there was no way to take them back. But the slow smile that spread across her face, the touch of color in her cheeks, the way her eyes lit up like a beacon...they made the small slip completely worth it. She had beautiful eyes, like the People of old. Almond-shaped and vivid green, sunlight filtering through canopy.

"Thank you," she said once she'd found her voice. "I always felt a bit apart from my clan. Not just my name, everything about me. I wanted to see the world outside our little circle of aravels, while most of the others were focused only on the Dalish. And now..." She cut herself short, teetering along the edge of something she desperately wanted to say to.

He was already advising her on the Fade and teaching her about magic. He may as well be her confidante. "Now...?" he prompted gently.

"It's terrifying. Disorienting. But it's also  _wonderful_. We live in such a beautiful world, and most of us never leave our little corners to see it." She gestured to the steely waves roaring against sheer rock cliffs, her color high and eyes fever bright. "I...am I wrong to feel so different from my own kin?"

"No," said Solas fiercely. He placed a hand on her shoulder, the first time he'd touched her since closing that first rift. "Never apologize for who you are,  _da'len_. Never let anyone else define your spirit."

She almost took a step back from him, startled by his vehemence. Solas quickly let her go but did not drop his gaze. The words were from a younger, more hot-headed elf, but they still rang true after all these eons. He watched her expression go from surprised to thoughtful, then quiet and solemn.

"I understand."

Coming from anyone else, the words would have sounded shallow, courtesy for courtesy's sake. But coming from her...he could almost bring himself to believe her. Before any more of his words risked betraying him, he wished her good night and quickly returned to the circle of dying firelight. He laid down in his bedroll and briefly rested his face in his hands, frustrated with himself.

It was such a simple task. Speak to the girl. Make her see the unpleasant necessity of harnessing the faithful. She treated him with respect bordering on deference; she would be easy enough to convince. Instead, she had completely derailed him without even realizing what she'd done. Her words cut dangerously close to his heart, despite having known him for barely a month.

She was different from the rest of the elves in this age, neither arrogant like the Dalish nor defeated like the poor wretches in alienages. Solas allowed himself a small smile; there was a silver lining to this whole mess after all. The orb was still his primary objective.  And he owed this world a final breath of respite before the stroke fell.  

But Clariel of clan Lavellan had a spark of the People of old in her, and for now, that was reason enough to hope.


	3. Faith

While the humans bickered and yelled at one another, Solas searched.

He was still weak from his slumber, but he had strength enough for this. He had to. Corypheus had taken so much from him, to say nothing of what the creature had done to the Inquisition and its followers. He was not going to lose her as well, that rare and precious spark. He called to them in his mind, the white wolves of the Frostbacks, and they answered. Alone at the edge of camp, legs crossed and eyes closed, he searched through their senses.

Clariel wasn't dead. If she had perished, he would have known, felt something as the power of the Anchor left her body. But he had nothing else to go on, only the certainty that she still lived. She had given them a few hours' head start; he directed the pack along the pilgrim's path leading into the mountains. If there was any sign of her, they'd pick up the trail. They scattered with a thought to cover more area, eyes and ears and noses straining for any sign of her.

The moon was high in the sky by the time the alpha smelled it.

_Fear._

The wolf's nature threatened to reassert itself against his pull. Solas's brow furrowed, the only sign of effort as he wrested control back from the beast's primal instincts. He saw her differently like this; her quick breaths, her careful movement through the snow, the smell of corrupted blood on her armor. She was further behind than he initially anticipated; he had to motivate her.

He directed the alpha to circle behind her, intending to use the pack's howls to drive her in the right direction. But she heard the alpha's footfalls, hunter's eyes honing in on its location. She raised her bow and nocked an arrow though her hands were stiff with cold.

 _Leap_ , screamed the alpha's nature, sensing the threat.  _Rend_. Its eyes fixed on her throat. It was faster than her, stronger, easily capable of overwhelming her. Solas was forced to send the rest of the pack running into the mountains, bending all of his will toward the alpha, sending his spirit into the great beast's skin. He watched through wolf's eyes, listened to her pounding heart through wolf ears. It felt liberating, dangerously so, sensing the world once more through the wolf; the beast sang to him, powerful and fierce and free of all burdens. He could almost taste its keen hunger for blood.

But he controlled himself and the alpha took a few steps forward her, head high and body relaxed to show he was no threat. Clariel did not lower the bow, but neither did she shoot. Through the alpha's body, Solas walked right up to her, nudging her hand with his nose. The scent of her flooded his senses, made his mouth go dry back in his own body.

He could make out the lines of astonishment in her face. "I don't understand," she whispered, looking at the unnatural glow in the possessed beast's eyes. " _Fen'Harel?_ "

His heart seized, but Solas held onto the wolf tightly, ruthlessly; the tiniest slip in control could spell her end. He nudged her hand again, then began to walk into the snow toward the Inquisition camp. Clariel didn't follow immediately, and he had to look back and howl at her before she lowered her bow and began to step after him. At first she walked at a wary distance from him, but slowly began to close the gap. He felt the fear beginning to slip from her, marveled at how quickly she conquered it.

He kept within her sight but out of her reach, leading her ever onward, refusing to let her flag or rest. The snow began to swirl around them more heavily. Clariel's spirit burned brightly as ever, but her body would fail her first if they didn't hurry. She seemed to know it too, watching him with a tired smile.

"Thank you," she said, tentatively reaching for the wolf's head. Solas flinched away, steering the alpha toward the ridge above her.

 _A little further, lethallan,_  he thought, though the words could not reach her.  _A little further, a little higher._  Wearily, he heard her follow once more. When she slipped, he caught her clothing in his jaws and steadied her. When she fell, he pushed her to her feet. It was a torturous, agonizing process, but she never showed any indication of giving up.

When they reached the top of the crest and she saw the lights of the campfires below, Solas knew his work was done. He let go of the alpha with one last command: flee. She watched the great beast sprinting back the way he'd come, then stumbled over the top of the ridge with renewed strength born of hope. Through his own ears, Solas faintly heard shouting from the top of the ridge. He wearily opened his eyes, watching the commotion from the shadows.

He didn't shove his way to her side, let Cullen carry her back down into the camp. The humans swarmed around her, whispers of divine salvation on their lips. Varric approached him, both of them watching Clariel. Cullen put her down on one of the makeshift cots, shielded from the cold. Priests fluttered around her like butterflies.

"You don't seem that surprised that she made it, Chuckles."

"I had faith in her," he said, surprised when he believed his own words. He did have faith, just of a different sort than the humans.

Despite her condition, Clariel quickly lost patience with everyone fussing over her. Within ten minutes she'd sat back up, pushing aside the pile of blankets that threatened to suffocate her. Her large green eyes caught his, a quiet plea for help.

Solas walked over to her cot and caught Cullen's eye at the edge of the crowd. "I believe your Herald needs medical attention, not a mob," he said quietly but firmly.

The commander looked down at him and frowned. "She's your Herald too. Unless you were planning on leaving now that the Breach is sealed. That was your initial offer, as I recall."

Corypheus was still out there, with the stolen orb and a blighted dragon. It was not a battle Solas could fight without Clariel, though Cullen wasn't to know that. "The Breach  _is_  why I joined your Inquisition," he conceded, his gaze fixed on her. "But it is not why I intend to stay."

Cullen nodded slowly, then drew himself to his full height and called out over the crowd. "That's enough. Everyone clear out except Solas. Give the Herald some space to breathe." Solas had to admire Cassandra's skill in building the Inquisition; this man knew how to lead. The crush of people quickly dispersed, leaving him and Clariel alone, though the space was hardly private.

He pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. "Thanks, Solas," she said, her voice weak with exhaustion. "I thought they were going to smother me." Then she impulsively reached out and wrapped her still-cold arms around him.

His mind screamed at him to pull away, but before he could stop himself, he returned the embrace. She was shivering still - that was a good sign. She hadn't reached the point where she was too cold to shiver. He let her rest her head against his shoulder, used his hands to rub some warmth back into her body. "I am glad to see you still live," he whispered. Someone had removed her sodden armor before burying her in blankets, and he could feel her heartbeat against his own.

He exhaled slowly, and magical warmth rushed through them both. Soft eyelashes fluttered against his skin; the unexpected touch snapped him back to his senses, and he gently disentangled himself from her. "You need rest,  _lethallan,_ " he said, trying to get her to lie down again.

She stayed stubbornly seated, hugging her knees to her chest beneath the blanket. "I need to know what's going on, Solas. What's the plan?"

"Right now, the plan is to evade the Elder One's grasp until we have another plan."

"That's it? That's the brilliant idea?" she said incredulously. She struggled to get up, but a warning glance from Solas kept her seated.

"You bought us time, Clariel, not wisdom." Carefully, without touching her, he began channeling warm air over her body. "This Inquisition fractures to pieces without you."

He watched the weight of his words settle on her slender shoulders. "I know,  _hahren_." Then it came spilling out of her, the little pieces of the truth that she'd gleaned from Corypheus. He sat and listened to her patiently; he knew most of it already, though it gave him no small pleasure that Corypheus had not been able to separate the Anchor from her either, even with the orb in his possession. It seemed that fragment of his power was hers to keep...for now. Somehow the thought of her using his stolen magic no longer troubled him.

Then he frowned, interrupting her story as a strange incongruity occurred to him. "Did Corypheus himself tell you all of this?"

A small, proud smile touched Clariel's eyes. "All I had to do was keep him talking."

Solas stared. "You...goaded him into telling you all this?"

"He was very adamant about me not being his equal," said Clariel, rubbing the livid marks on her throat. He gently pushed her hand away and turned his attention to her neck, healing magic soothing away the dark bruises. "Enough to spill his secrets while he was trying to throttle the life out of me."

"You are..." he began, unable to find the right words. "I must admit, I do not know what to make of you sometimes." By now he should be used to her turning the world on its ear, and yet the feeling of giddy vertigo never quite went away.

She laughed, a sound born of nerves and relief, then quickly sobered. "I'm alive, and I know a lot more about Corypheus than I did this morning. That's a start."

Solas raised an eyebrow at her. "You know he claims to be an ancient Tevinter magister, that he is in possession of an orb of great magical power. That will not help you defeat him."

"But he  _can_  be defeated. He has weaknesses - his pride, his delusions of godhood, his reliance on that orb." She dropped her head into her hands, staring at nothing. "We just have to figure out how to exploit those weaknesses."

"That is a topic of discussion for later," he said firmly. He put his staff back in its holster and handed her a bowl of stew that one of the Chantry sisters had brought. "Finish eating that, then sleep. I will wake you if Seeker Cassandra and the others need you."

"I need to tell them what happened, Solas."

"I will inform them on your behalf. I have a good memory for these things." He turned to go, but Clariel's hand caught him by the shoulder.

"Solas...you're going to stay with the Inquisition, right?" she asked. And for just a moment she sounded like a girl again.

He should have pulled away, as he did in the alpha's body. But he took her hand in his, gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. "You face a magister of old, who intends doom on all the world. I could not let you fight this war without me," he said with a smile.

She squeezed back, her thumb brushing his knuckles. He couldn't miss the way her whole face lit up, the blush that crept along her ears, the spark in her eyes. The sight of her joy warmed him from head to toe, sent flutters through his chest for the first time in literal ages.

"When we first met, you said I could thank you properly if we managed to close the Breach without killing me," she said softly. "So thank you, Solas."

His answering smile was sad and gentle. "Rest,  _lethallan._  We are not out of danger yet." He reluctantly let go of her hand and began walking away, but the memory of her touch, however light and innocent, clung to him like a glove.

 _I can't encourage her,_  he told himself resolutely.

 _I can't lose her,_  he realized. That second voice grew louder and louder every time she cheated fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by the wolves that howl at the Inquisitor as s/he seeks the rest of the Inquisition after the fall of Haven. Internet hugs and cookies for the readers who can spot the line that mimics Solas's in-game "Hallelujah" rhythm.


	4. Valor

Clariel thrived at Skyhold, the ancient fortress with so much more to offer than mere walls and battlements. He could practically hear  _Tarasyl'an Te'las_  sing to her, the very presence of her spirit reawakening the magic in stone and earth. His was old, old magic, a sympathetic sort that did not respond to runes or gestures or even magical potential, but rather to the essence of the one who wielded it.

He had chosen well.

And yet a shadow hung over her, one that only Solas could see. For the first few days at Skyhold, she was too busy and exhausted to dream clearly. But once the Inquisition had settled in, he started to hear the screaming.

The first night, her screams of terror in the Fade were quickly cut short; she had probably startled herself awake. The next day found her just as warm and cheerful as usual, and Solas wrote it off as a fluke. But the following night and the night after, as he delved into the human history of the fortress, he heard her crying out again, close enough in the Fade to touch.

No good could come of intruding on another's dreams uninvited, even to relieve a nightmare. He couldn't go to her, but neither could he bring himself to abandon her. He gritted his teeth, trying to tune out her terrified cries.

"Why is this happening?" she kept sobbing, her voice tearing across the Fade. "What did I do  _wrong_?"

When he saw her in the morning, she had dark circles under her eyes. Every time she spoke, Solas heard the faint echo of her screams in his mind. He ate breakfast quickly and returned to his room to paint, only for Clariel to corner him in the doorway.

"Solas? Could I ask you something?"

He was getting worse and worse at refusing her anything. "You just have, but of course." He ushered her into the room and sat down at his desk, examining one of the strange shards she'd found. She immediately flopped down on his couch, looking up at the half-finished frescos with a smile.

"Is this what you've been doing? Your contribution to refurbishing Skyhold?"

Solas laughed, running his hands over the nearest panel. "Skyhold is yours now, Inquisitor. This is your story." The way she smiled at him almost drowned the tired, haunted look in her eyes. Almost. "But I don't think that is the question you wished to ask."

She shook her head, sitting up on the couch with her knees hugged against her chest. "I haven't been sleeping well," she admitted. "I keep dreaming of..."

"Corypheus?"

"No," she said. "Not him. He doesn't scare me as much as he used to. I keep seeing...what the Envy demon showed me."

He put the shard down, very slowly and deliberately. She hadn't said a word about the Envy demon's botched possession attempt to anyone; there hadn't been time, what with Corypheus attacking almost immediately after their return from Therinfal, followed by the exhausting march to Skyhold. He got up from his chair and came to sit beside her.

Solas chose his words carefully. " _Lethallan_ , you should know better than to believe what a demon would show you. Observe, listen, but trust is a different matter."

"It's not like that," she said with a bite of impatience. "It's - Solas, will you promise not to tell this to anyone else? Except Cole, since he was there with me."

He hadn't made promises of any sort in a very, very long time. Few things in this world were more powerful than a promise kept. But this would not be a difficult one to keep, so he nodded and waited for her to continue.

"It showed me what it wanted to do to the Inquisition, what could happen to Thedas at the Herald's hands," she said. Her voice was soft but her eyes were leagues away, back in Therinfal, wrestling with the demon. "I saw holy war, the Herald turned into a rallying cry and a curse. Orlais fallen, blood running through the streets, legions of zealots flocking to the Inquisition's banner."

She stopped, drew a shaky breath, and kept going. "I saw Josephine, begging me to grant her a quick death over starvation. Cullen with his throat slit. Cassandra driving a bloody sword through any who opposed me. Envy is dead, but I can't stop replaying it." She looked up at him, out of words, an unspoken plea on her lips.

He leaned forward and firmly grasped both of her shoulders. "The Envy demon showed you its vision for the Inquisition. I know that future is not what you want."

"Do you think Emperor Drakon envisioned all this madness when he first founded the Chantry?" she asked. "Did the nobles of the Dales foresee the diaspora of our people? The Inquisition is becoming a juggernaut, Solas. How much can one person's intentions matter?"

They weren't questions he could answer, and again, her unknowing words pierced him like a lance. He knew the bitter path of good intentions all too well, and he could offer her no comfort or wisdom in that regard. 

"You are wise to fear power and its corrupting influence. But I can offer you nothing beyond what you already know. The path of the Inquisitor is one you must learn to walk on your own. If it is any consolation, anyone truly drunk on her own power would not self-examine the way you do."

She let out a small sigh of disappointment. "OK. Thanks for listening." She got up to go, but Solas gently caught her arm.

"Wait. I can assist in another way. I can defend you from your nightmares...if you will allow it."

He said the words knowing fully well what it would mean if she accepted. But he was so tired of shielding himself from her, tired of hiding behind his walls when her spirit burned so brightly before him. He let go of her and Clariel sat back down slowly, watching him with a mix of hope and apprehension. "What do you mean, if I allow it?"

Solas took a moment to sort out his thoughts. "I told you once that the Fade reflects the minds of the living. You suffer worse nightmares than most for two reasons; first, I believe the Anchor allows you to dream with greater focus, like a mage. When I dream, I can sense you more strongly in the Fade."

She didn't say anything, drinking in his words with that spark in her eyes alight once more.

"Second, you have experienced more horrific events than most. The combination draws demons to you. They weave your nightmares, feed off of your fears. Individual demons crave novelty and will eventually leave you, but more will inevitably come."

"What does this have to do with you?"

"I can find you and help repel the demons. If you like, I can even guide you through the Fade as I explore it for hidden knowledge and memories." He couldn't quite keep the excitement from his voice; the exploration of the Fade was one of his few pure pleasures, and the prospect of sharing it with her hit him in a heady rush.

"However," he continued, "I will need permission to enter your dreams."

"You  _need_  my permission? Or you want it?" It hardly sounded like a question.

"I need it," he said firmly. "I would never take that which is not given freely."

"And what, exactly, would I be giving?"

This was the real question, the one he'd been building toward and dreading. "Access to your dream would give me...flashes of your thoughts. Your memories. Scattered and disjointed, but still something I couldn't normally see. You will eventually learn to exert control and build up your mental defenses, but not at first."

He expected her to flinch, draw back from him, walk away without another word.

She was so very good at defying expectation. She made a soft, thoughtful sound, searching him with those bright green eyes. Solas was used to being the one observing others; he held himself still, fought the impulse to break eye contact.

"I accept," she said simply. "And before you start getting cold feet, I do understand the trust I have to place in you." She laughed a little. "Besides, if you wished harm on me, all you had to do was walk away while I was dying from the Anchor."

He fought down the choked feeling in his throat. She trusted so effortlessly, though it still carried so much weight. That it was him she chose to trust filled him with both warmth and shame. "That is...an odd way of putting it," he replied, casting about for something safe to say.

"It's the truth." She got to her feet. "I'll see you tonight, then, I guess."

"Best not to phrase it that way."

Clariel's soft laugh finally erased the exhaustion from her face, eased the burden on her shoulders. "Sorry. And thank you, Solas."

He watched her leave his room, graceful as ever. She stopped at the doorway, gifting him a tiny, secret half-smile. When she was gone, Solas fell back on the couch and closed his eyes, drawing a shuddering breath.

He was already in too deep, and at the moment, he couldn't even bring himself to care.

* * *

Solas went to sleep early that evening to give himself a few more hours of exploration before he needed to render aid. There was a spirit of Valor who dwelt in this area of the Fade and remembered  _Tarasyl'an Te'las_ of old. He could see the imprints of its influence all around; it was merely a matter of approaching and finding it. It was elusive at the moment, watching from the fringes of Skyhold's dreams, waiting to find one worthy of its gifts.

It wouldn't need to wait for long. Clariel had already physically walked the Fade, twice thwarted a magister of old, unleashed the Inquisition upon Thedas. Her actions would feed the spirit, strengthen it far beyond what it was now. When the Inquisition was gone, the spirit would remember her. And so would Skyhold.

It was hard to track the passage of time here, but it seemed to take longer tonight for Clariel to find herself in the throes of nightmare, for her cries to reach him in the Fade. Solas steeled his will and moved to her dream evenly, unhurried. He didn't want to attract any more attention to her.

He found himself not in Therinfal Redoubt, but in Skyhold, its courtyard hidden under several inches of blood. His Inquisitor stood on the stairs above, cradling a limp, dying form in her arms. He made his way up to her on silent feet, shrouding himself in the deep shadows of the dream.

"You abandoned us. You failed me,  _da'len_."

Solas's feet froze to the stone. His own voice came from the demon masquerading in her arms. A petty creature of terror that dared use his form to cause her pain. Sudden rage tore through him, and all he wanted in that moment was to rip the demon to shreds and disperse all that remained of it into the raw Fade.

He forced himself to swallow his anger, burying it for later. If he unleashed it now, he would only frighten her and make the nightmare worse. It would be best if she learned to help herself, rather than relying on him in dreams. Gently so as not to startle her, he stepped from the shadows directly in front of Clariel, clearing his throat to get her attention.

Swollen, tear-stained eyes looked up at him. "Solas?" she whispered. "What-" Her eyes flitted from him to the bloody doppleganger in her arms, wide and frightened.

"How did you get here, Clariel?" he asked gently.

"Don't ignore me," whispered the terror demon through bloody lips. "You sacrificed all of us, and now you don't even have the courtesy to look at what you've done?"

Solas hid his smile. This demon was strong but overeager, and its mask was relatively thin. "Think, Inquisitor. Do those sound like words I would use?"

Clarity began to dawn on her face as she pulled herself from the demon's weakly clutching hands. "No," she said slowly, looking again from it to Solas. Her eyes scanned the bloody, corpse-strewn courtyard. "How did this all happen?"

"Does it matter?" Terror's control broke slightly, turning into a hiss entirely unlike Solas's voice. "This is your fault!"

If it was anyone's fault, it was Solas's. But he couldn't say that to her. "How did you get here?" he repeated instead.

She blinked at him. The Anchor on her hand flared unconsciously as she exerted her will. "I...don't remember," she said hesitantly. She looked down at the demon, her frightened expression turning to something colder, calculating. "If you're not Solas, who are you?"

Its form broke, limbs stretching and elongating into Terror. Long green claws extended toward his Inquisitor, but Solas threw himself between them, pushing her behind him. The demon's eyes turned toward him, and its mouth opened in a furious snarl.

"You, dreamwalker. You've cost me my meal!"

"And you should know better than to take my form," Solas whispered, so only the demon could hear him. It lashed out at him, the savage blow meeting his barrier as he effortlessly deflected it. Terror reeled back and Solas unleashed the anger he'd been saving, shattering the demon into a thousand strange little shards with a wave of his hand. What remained of it silently dispersed it into the Fade, banishing the bloody courtyard with it.

He closed his eyes briefly, steadying himself. He hadn't meant for Clariel to see the full extent of his mastery over the Fade, how powerful he was here. "Are you all right?" he asked, not turning around.

_A flash of a smile, fear quelled for the first time in hours by fascination with an unusual stranger. Hahren, she says, thanking him for her life, keen to know more about him even as the Breach crashes around them._

Her memory of the first time they met shot through his mind, brighter and sharper than he'd expected. He heard her get to her feet slowly. "You helped me," she said. "Just like you promised."

_A wide-eyed child walking into the forest for the first time with her father, listening to the chattering of starlings and whistling back to them. A teenage girl taking shelter in a cave with nothing but the wind for company. A young woman stumbling across a dead templar in that same forest, her heart squeezing with cold dread._

Solas shook his head and pushed the fragments of her memories aside. This was no time for memory, not when he had so much to show and teach her. "You helped yourself," he said. "All I did was prompt you."

He turned around to look at her; the hazy light of the unformed Fade reflected in her large green eyes, giving her the ephemeral look of a spirit. He extended a hand and helped her to her feet; although her hands still shook ever from the nightmare, her grip was firm and strong.

"What now?" Clariel asked.

Solas smiled, joy flooding from him into her and their surroundings. Here in the Fade, everything was as it should be. The world literally opened before them, inviting them to seek and learn.

"Now, we explore. There is so much I want you to see."


	5. Hope

One of his oldest friends was gone. And the ones who had tortured and killed it walked free. It was almost more than he could bear. Rage snarled and snapped within him, waiting for him to unleash it. He could still follow the foolish mage who had committed this atrocity. It would be a simple enough matter to track him down and tear his beating heart from his chest, a quicker and cleaner death than Wisdom's corruption and slow torture. Clariel would never know what he'd done.

But he would, and he couldn't bear to tell her more lies. Solas continued striding up the riverbank, looking for a quiet place to sleep. The dying grass beneath his bare feet curled into smoke as he walked. He headed down to the water, dipping his hands into the cold stream.

He couldn't dream like this, with his mind in turmoil and every nerve screaming for vengeance. The Inquisition hadn't yet secured this area, and he could sense how weak the Veil had become between the Breach and all the fighting to the north. There were still active Fade rifts, and he wasn't about to draw even more demons through. His Inquisitor's life was difficult enough already. He pulled off his armor and pack, leaving him only wearing his breeches and a thin linen shirt.

Solas waded into the river up to his waist, embracing the meltwater's biting chill. It numbed his senses, forced his mind to focus on his body instead of his grief. Carefully, he turned to float on his back, letting the water carry him downstream.

_"Lethallin, ir abelas."_

Thousands of years of wisdom, gone in a heartbeat, and for what? The lives of a few worthless, ignorant humans?

_"Mala suledin nadas."_

He had endured so much already. His own destruction of the People, the guilt over Corypheus and the orb, and now the senseless destruction of a spirit the world could ill-afford to lose.

_"Solas..."_

One word from Clariel was all it took. His name, and the flames had died in his hands. Solas flipped himself into a standing position, numb legs carrying him out of the freezing stream. He started to shiver violently as his wet skin hit the air. A thin line of fire erupted from his fingers, burning away the rivulets of water running down his body.

A grove of young oak trees stood over a rocky outcropping further up the bank. Perhaps here, with no sign of people or civilization, he could find some rest. He stretched out in the mossy shade and closed his eyes. He tried to relax his clenched hands, matching his breathing to the gentle lapping of the water on the river bank behind him.

Usually when he entered the Fade, he waited for it to give him some cue, some direction in which he could explore. But today, he had a destination. The place where Wisdom had been was not far; it was never far for him. He walked with quiet purpose through fragments of dreams; Rajmael standing defiant and bloodied, the Grand Duke's men holding off an enemy charge, a pair of young Dalish lovers sneaking away from the circle of aravels under a moonless sky.

Wisdom would have remembered these dreams, cataloged their events, eagerly discussed the mortals who dreamed them with him. And now, it was gone.

Something stirred around him, drawn to his grief. Solas looked up to see a spirit in the form of a small bird, circling just above his reach. A starling with iridescent green-and-purple wings. He held out a hand, and it landed on his palm gingerly, tilting its head at him.

Spirits who enjoyed imitating the form of animals were common enough, only slightly more powerful than simple wisps. He transferred the spirit to his shoulder, wishing for one moment that Clariel could have seen this. She loved animals; a family of starlings roosted on her balcony at Skyhold, and she wouldn't let anyone remove them despite the ceaseless clamor they made.

He wondered what Wisdom would have thought of his Inquisitor, had they met under less dire circumstances.

Eventually the little spirit on his shoulder grew bored and fluttered off into the Fade, shifting seamlessly to a fiery red dragonfly as it disappeared from his sight. Solas was close to his destination now. He took a deep breath, composing himself.

For him, Wisdom's glade resembled one of the amphitheaters of ancient Arlathan, several rings of marble benches rising out of shallow, crystal-clear water. It was empty now, without the spirit's gentle presence anchoring its heart. He could feel its dispersed energy stirring, swirling in the void. Solas sat down on one of the benches, closing his eyes. His memories were the only gravestone his old friend would ever have. When he left, this echo of Arlathan would slowly fade and disappear, never to return.

He wasn't sure how long he had lingered there when he sensed a different presence. She sent ripples through the very fabric of dreams, then left utter stillness in her wake.

"Mythal," he whispered.

The witch descended into the amphitheater, her footsteps heavy and echoing in the stillness. "You should be more cautious," she chided as she sat beside him. "Anyone with ears heard you storming through the Fade."

"Then I am fortunate that few in this age have them," he replied.

"Are you?"

Solas had no answer for her. He felt her place a hand on his shoulder. She was without her usual intimidating facade, an old woman with wrinkled hands who shared some piece of his burden. It made everything just a tiny bit easier. The two of them sat there for what might have been a second or an eternity, gazing into the empty space where Wisdom had been.

"Is this the end of what you can endure?" Mythal finally asked. "The proverbial last straw?"

Solas shook his head. "No. The Inquisition still needs me."

She gave him a painfully knowing look. "Your  _Inquisitor_  still needs you."

It was pointless trying to deny it to Mythal. He didn't trust himself to speak, so he merely nodded and clasped her hands in his, a silent thank-you before he got to his feet and left the empty dream. Something might reform here someday, but it would not remember him. It would not be the friend he knew.

He had so few friends left. He could not afford to waste the precious time he had with them.

* * *

Solas waited until it was after midnight before slipping through the gates of the ancient fortress. Skyhold was never quiet, even at night. The Bull's Chargers were still going strong in the tavern; raucous laughter and snatches of drunken song drifted out into the courtyard. Farther away from the ruckus, crickets chirped, soldiers chatted over braziers on the walls, and the soft rumble of the waterfall beneath Skyhold held it all together. He walked through the courtyard toward the stables, where he could hear Clariel's hart braying.

He rounded the corner to find her grooming the big red beast. "Shut up, Prongs, you'll wake the castle," she said, stroking the hart's nose. Prongs snuffled at her hair, making her giggle. "Be good, and I'll have Master Dennet put some dried fruit in your breakfast tomorrow, ok?"

Solas cleared his throat, leaning against the wall of the stables. "Inquisitor."

Clariel yelped softly and whirled around. She must have been exhausted if he managed to sneak up on her. "Solas. You startled me."

"I apologize. I didn't realize you were still up."

She waved away his apology, turning her attention from the hart to him. "Don't worry about me. How are you?" she asked quietly.

"It hurts," he admitted. "It always does, but I will endure." The words came easier than he expected.

"I'm glad you came back."

There it was, the implication that he might have been upset enough to leave for good. She certainly had cause to think so. "You were a true friend. You did everything you could to help." He felt a small but genuine smile tug at his lips. "I could hardly abandon you now."

For a moment, he thought she might reach out and grasp his shoulder, but she stopped at a safe, courteous distance. Solas let out a soft breath, unable to decide if he was disappointed or relieved. She hadn't touched him since that haunting kiss in the Fade, respecting his request for time and space. If anything, she was tiptoeing around him, afraid of pushing boundaries. He suddenly realized how acutely he missed her smile.

"The next time you have to mourn, you don't need to be alone," she said gently.

He'd been alone for long before she existed, and would be again after their paths parted. But for this tiny span of time, she was right.

"It's been so long since I could trust anyone," he murmured, half to himself and half to her.

His Inquisitor's eyes were bright with wisdom and compassion. "I know," she whispered back.

He let his gaze drop to her lips, and the longing that she'd awakened in the Fade flared within him again, even stronger in the waking world. He wanted to let her comfort him, feel her arms around him and her voice soothing his tired spirit.

"I'll work on it," he said instead. "And thank you."

Prongs snorted impatiently at her and Clariel laughed, turning away from Solas. "You big selfish idiot," she said affectionately, lifting the coarse brush in her hand. "I'm trying to have a conversation here."

"It's all right," said Solas. "Sleep well, Inquisitor." He left the stables and made his way up to the side door of the rotunda, hoping to slip into the Fade before attracting any more attention.

Cole was perched on his painting scaffold, looking down at him. Solas sat down in his chair and braced himself for the inevitable barrage of emotions and questions, but instead, Cole simply slid down the ladder and started heading for the door. He caught Solas's puzzled expression on his way out.

"I thought you would need me but you don't," the spirit of compassion explained. "You have her. She is song where there was silence, she is raindrops over broken earth."

"It's not like that," he replied automatically.

"Yes, it is," said Cole, and his words rang with a simple, undeniable truth. "Like counting birds against the sun. Too bright, too real, but you can't help yourself."

Solas could only sit there, staring at the spirit. Unbidden, his mind drifted back to Clariel's words in the courtyard.  _You don't have to be alone_.

Cole kept going, his eyes fixed on Solas with that familiar, soul-shattering intensity. " _Vhenan_. It's on your lips, and you wonder what it would sound like on hers. Why don't you say it?"

That was too much. Every alarm bell went off his head, mental walls closing seamlessly around him. "Cole, enough." While he took care not to sound angry, he felt the spirit briefly push at his thoughts in confusion before backing away. The heavy oak door closed behind him, leaving Solas alone again.

It was difficult to enter the Fade like this, with his thoughts in knots and Clariel at the center of the tangle. It was foolhardy, even, to try. While he was not easy prey, he would certainly attract the attention of desire demons while so preoccupied. He laid down on the couch, looking up at the frescos he'd painted. He remembered each line, counted brushstrokes, and soon his mind quieted enough for him to slip across.

Instinct carried him back to where Wisdom had been. It was harder to reach from Skyhold; there was so much history to the castle, so many spirits and dreamers and memories that he had to wade through. But he was nothing if not patient, and eventually, he found himself back in the amphitheater.

Mythal was gone, though he hadn't really expected her to linger. The water was a little duller, the sky a little grayer, the marble bench under his fingers less solid. Nothing lasted in the Fade.

For a few minutes, he allowed himself the childish indulgence of breathing life back into the dream. A thought from him restored color to the sky, raised more benches, sent a gentle spring breeze stirring the surface of the water. It wasn't Wisdom's dream, just his own recollection of it, but he couldn't help himself. Was it really so terrible to just hold on for a few moments?

"Solas?"

He whirled around to see Clariel standing at the edge of the dream. The Anchor glittered like an emerald in her outstretched hand.

The last time she'd found him in a dream, he wound up kissing her. He slowly got to his feet, determined not to make the same mistake twice. How had she found Wisdom's home? Few apart from Solas and Mythal even knew such spirits existed.

"Inquisitor," he said cautiously. She didn't seem to know she was dreaming, and for the first time since he started sharing the Fade with her, he wanted to keep it that way.

But nothing he had seen on either side of the Veil could have prepared him for what happened next. Clariel took one step toward him, and his recreation of Wisdom's home began to unravel under her feet. The displaced dream coalesced around her, drawn to the Anchor. It began as a trickle, then a flood, the amphitheater dissolving into little streams of light with each step she took.

Solas took a few hasty steps back and raised his hands to stop her approach. " _Lethallan_  - " Cracks appeared in the dream as the shifting light of the raw Fade seeped into the gaps where she walked.

She stopped walking but didn't seem frightened, imbued with the unknowing courage of dreamers. "Wow," she whispered, golden light dancing in her eyes. "Are you doing this, Solas?"

He had no idea, and that frightened him more than anything else. For once, he couldn't tell if it was her, or the Anchor, or him projecting in his current emotional state. The dream had almost completely disappeared save for the water beneath his feet. Clariel laughed in delight, turning on the spot as the lines of light around her swirled higher and brighter, rising up into the dream-sky like a beacon.

With a sudden start, he recognized the energy that had once formed Wisdom being drawn from the raw Fade around her. He ran to her and raised his hand, gathering his own magic to dispel whatever she'd done.

"Clariel, stop!" His voice shook as he desperately tried to get her attention, for her to focus on him instead of the Anchor. _"_ You don't know what you're doing!"

Even as he said the words, his heart fell. She wasn't a mage; she wasn't even lucid. She had no idea what was happening to her or how to stop it...and if he was entirely honest with himself, neither did he.

She turned toward him, beaming, and the spell fizzled in his fingertips. "Don't worry," she said, and the glow of the Anchor became a blaze, blindingly bright. "It won't hurt me." Her hands found his, pulling him into the maelstrom of light with her.

_Wisdom finds it first, the memory they both were seeking, the echo of the dwarven empire of old. They stand in the lost Shaperate of Kal-Sharok, literal eons of knowledge entombed in stone and memory. A young Shaper carefully repairs cracks in the bas relief on the wall, and curses when a careless slip obliterates the tip of a Paragon's hooked nose._

_Clariel commits the Chantry hymn to memory, running it through her head during the long march to Skyhold. She doesn't say anything to anyone; she has enough trouble being compared to Andraste as it is. But one evening on the Storm Coast, she sets the song free, trusting the pounding waves to keep her secret. She doesn't know that Solas is listening, drowning in her voice._

_"What can change the nature of a man?" Wisdom asks when they leave the memory of a mage forced into Harrowing and Tranquility. He can't find an answer for either of them, still trembling like a leaf as the mage's last thought of helpless terror grips his heart._

_"Sweet talker," Clariel whispers playfully, waiting for him to pull away, to brush off her teasing the way he always does. But when he finds himself rooted to the spot, her lips find his, a fleeting brush of warmth and life._

The maelstrom became a beam, pouring through them both as the Anchor drew the stuff of dreams around them like a cocoon. Then just as quickly as it had come, the storm dissipated. The sound of great beating wings filled the air, then all was silence and the unformed Fade.

Clariel blinked up at Solas, dazed. The Anchor dimmed into invisibility. "Did you  _see_  that?" she whispered.

He couldn't form the words to answer her; he barely had the wherewithal to let go, forcing himself to wake. The dream clung to him as his eyes slowly opened, the sound of wings still filling his ears. The rotunda gave a nauseating lurch when he sat up from the couch, and he had to steady himself against the painted wall, his hands shaking.

He looked up at the finished frescos. Her fortress, her actions. He couldn't decide how he would paint the previous night's events, or even if he should.

The dream was too difficult to shake through mere force of will, and he hastily made his way down to the kitchens to brew a cup of tea. Cold, grey, pre-dawn light filtered through the narrow windows; even the baker wasn't awake yet. Solas brought the tea back to his room and took two scalding, bitter gulps. The teacup clattered in the saucer as he put it down on his desk and stared into its depths.

He still hadn't moved from the desk when the castle began to stir and the smell of breakfast wafted in from the great hall. He could hear the chatter of the Inquisitor's inner circle: Varric grumbling about the lack of pastries, Iron Bull's deep and raucous laughter. Clariel's softer voice drifted over the others now and then, and each time it sent another shiver through him, the same feeling stirred by the beating wings in the Fade.

Eventually she came looking for him, as she always did when he was missing from meals. Usually it was because he simply forgot to eat. Her gentle knock came at the door, five soft raps that he knew by heart.

"Morning, Solas," she said, effortlessly balancing a basket of Orlesian butter rolls and a bowl of apples in her arms. There were no shadows under her eyes. She dropped the food on his desk, helping herself to one of the apples.

"How did you sleep?" he asked as casually as he could. "No nightmares while I've been gone, I hope."

"Not that I can remember." Then she gave him a small smile. "If you're tired of babysitting me in the Fade, I'll miss the company but I'll manage."

"It is no trouble," his voice said as his mind reeled.

She had raised Hope from the ashes of Wisdom with nothing but the magnetic pull of her spirit, and she didn't even remember.

She should have been a dreamer. She would have been one in the days of Arlathan, the rare sort who built temples of light and joy in the minds of the People, who pushed back against despair and stood for freedom. Had she lived then - Solas ruthlessly stopped that train of thought. It was no good dwelling on what might have been.

Instead, for the first time since awakening, he allowed himself to think of what could be. He smiled at her fully for the first time, a smile without guilt or regret or fear, without his usual mask of courtesy. And when her fingers found his and closed around them, the spark of hope that she had ignited fluttered again in his chest.

His voice didn't say it, but his spirit whispered to hers.

_Ar lath ma, vhenan._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to all of you who stuck with this fic and especially those who reviewed; Solas's voice and internal thoughts were very challenging to write, but I enjoyed trying, and I hope you all enjoyed reading. Huge thanks to AryBoBary at BSN for a bunch of kind words and beta-ing this last chapter. And thank you as always to the Solas thread for blanket fort goodness, and BioWare for their amazing game.
> 
> Translations of elven phrases in alphabetical order:
> 
> ar lath ma, vhenan: I love you, (my) heart.
> 
> da'len: little child
> 
> Fen'Harel: the Dread Wolf, known to the Dalish as a trickster god
> 
> hahren: elder, used as a term of respect by the Dalish
> 
> ir abelas: an apology, can be translated as "I am filled with sorrow for your loss"
> 
> lethallan/lethallin: casual reference for someone familiar; cousin, clansman
> 
> mala suledin nadas: Now you must endure.
> 
> Tarasyl'an Telas: the ancient elven name for Skyhold, literally "the place where the sky was held back"
> 
> vallaslin: blood writing; the facial tattoos used by the Dalish to display their worship of the traditional elven pantheon
> 
> vhenan: my heart (implied possessive)


End file.
